Surely this is of far more vital importance than the mere melodiousness of single lines, or a metre of unvarying sweetness bearing gently along in its placid course (as a stream the leaf or twig fallen into it from above) some tiny thought or finikin fragment of emotion.  Matthew Arnold, who was both poet and critic, has told us with emphasis of “the necessity of accurate construction, and the subordinate character of expression."[5] His next words, though bearing a slightly different signification, may very legitimately be applied to Browning.  Arnold tells us “how unspeakably superior is the effect of the one moral impression left by a great action treated as a whole, to the effect produced by the most striking single thought or by the happiest image.”  For “a great action,” read “an adequate subject,” and the words define and defend Browning’s principle and practice exactly.  There is no characteristic of his work more evident, none more admirable or more rare, than the unity, the compactness and completeness, the skill and care in construction and definiteness in impression, of each poem.  I do not know any contemporary of whom this may more truly be said.  The assertion will be startling, no doubt, to those who are accustomed to think of Browning (as people once thought of Shakespeare) as a poet of great gifts but little skill; as a giant, but a clumsy giant; as what the French call a nature, an almost unconscious force, expending itself at random, without rule or measure.  But take, for example, the series of Men and Women, as originally published, read poem after poem (there are fifty to choose from) and scrutinise each separately; see what was the writer’s intention, and observe how far he has fulfilled it, how far he has succeeded in conveying to your mind a distinct and sharply-cut impression.  You will find that whatever be the subject, whatever the style, whether in your eyes the former be mistaken, the latter perverse, the poem itself, within its recognised limits, is designed, constructed and finished with the finest skill of the draughtsman or the architect.  You will find that the impression you have received from the whole is single and vivid, and, while you may not perceive it, it will generally be the case that certain details at which your fastidiousness cries out, certain uncouthnesses, as you fancy, are perfectly appropriate and in their place, and have contributed to the perfection of the ensemble.

A word may here be said in reference to the charge of “obscurity,” which, from the time when Browning’s earliest poem was disposed of by a complacent critic in the single phrase, “A piece of pure bewilderment,” has been hurled at each succeeding poem with re-iterate vigour of virulence.  The charge of “pure bewilderment” is about as reasonable as the charge of “habitual rudeness of versification.”  It is a fashion.  People abuse their “Browning” as they abuse their “Bradshaw,” though all that is wanting,